


Christmas in Space

by Jennifer-Oksana (JenniferOksana)



Category: The X-Files
Genre: F/M, Holidays
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-10-04
Updated: 2015-10-04
Packaged: 2018-04-24 20:15:29
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,040
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4933789
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/JenniferOksana/pseuds/Jennifer-Oksana
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Mulder and Scully get into the good eggnog.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Christmas in Space

I am a creature of extremes. Until I was twelve years old, I wanted to be

a holy man. A rabbi, a monk, a missionary, it didn’t matter. Then I woke  
up one morning, changed my mind, and basically decided I was an atheist. I  
know the obvious explanation here is that my sister’s disappearance caused  
me to lose all faith in God. It could be true in this case. But Fox Mulder  
is famous for doing surprise 180s for no discernible reason.

Case in point: when I decided which college to attend. I got in everywhere  
I applied, and it was a choice between Dartmouth, Harvard, and Oxford. I  
decided Dartmouth. I wanted to go to Dartmouth, I was sure– pretty damn  
sure– and then, well– three days before D-Day, I marched up to my father  
and told him I was going to Oxford. Case closed. This was after we’d told  
our entire family and all my friends I was a Dartmouth man. Dad took it  
fairly well, but Grandma Mulder pitched a fit and went to my cousin  
Arden’s graduation instead of mine. She claimed I was wishy-washy.

I’m not wishy-washy. When I make a decision, I’m absolutely sure it’s  
right, and I stick to my guns. It’s just that I can change my mind when  
I’m absolutely sure I was wrong. When I realized I was wrong about  
extraterrestrials, I could see the perfection and logic of a government  
conspiracy in lieu of aliens. It made sense. It was right. But the truth  
is, EBEs exist. QED. I was wrong about being wrong. I’ve been wrong  
before, I’ll probably be wrong again. And I just don’t do in-between. I  
understand the principle of in-between; one of my roommates at Oxford was  
a lit major who talked incessantly about deconstruction and the  
instability of the text ad infinitum. But I like binaries: black/white,  
good/bad, man/woman. It’s how I exist. Postmodernism can go chase itself.

And so, I’ve had a conversion involving holidays. The holidays have never  
had a pleasant connotation in my book. Count the catastrophes: Samantha’s  
disappearance around the time, dealing with a drunk father and a silent  
mother during my teens, to say nothing of watching Scully lose her father  
and Emily during Christmas. Before now, I was grinchier than the Grinch. I  
got perfunctory gifts for my mother and Scully. Other than that, my  
favorite holiday traditions involved the Eight Nights of Playboy’s Finest  
and breaking every candy cane I came across. I still don’t like candy  
canes. But I’m no longer the Grinch who stole Chanukah or whatever.

I really hate to admit this, but it was one of those ‘It’s a Wonderful  
Life’ type changes. One afternoon in early December, I was cruising the  
local mall (actually, I was playing the flaneur because Mick at AirTouch  
was fixing my cell phone) when I looked into– God help me– “Helen’s  
Holiday Hide-A-Way.” So I was definitely feeling masochistic, okay?

So there I am, envisioning ways to destroy the hide-a-way, nothing too  
grotesque: fire, earthquake, a swarm of killer bees, two really pissed off  
Wienerschnitzel employees– when I suddenly spot myself and Scully inside  
that first circle of Hell. We were appraising ornaments.

I quickly realized it couldn’t be my evil twin and my lovely partner,  
though. The couple inside were looking at goofy reindeer ornaments with  
smiles of delight. The real me would have been on the U.S.S. Enterprise  
ornaments like ham on eggs, and Scully would have retaliated with dainty  
Austrian crystal ballerinas. We’d end up completely at odds, and the  
tree– if we went with a tree– would have to be neatly divided in half.  
And we’d be thrilled about it.

So, yeah, yeah, yeah, they say in DC that Fox Mulder’s heart grew three  
sizes that day. It was an accident! I wasn’t all that converted when I  
retrieved my precious cell phone, grabbed some Chinese at the food court,  
and went home. I can’t explain how I woke up the next morning brimming  
with Yuletide cheer. It might have been the Elvis; the clock radio was  
playing “Blue Christmas” when I woke up. But the magic of the season had  
me in its tinseled, consumerist clutches before I finished my shower.

On the way to work that day, between yodeling out White Christmas and Adam  
Sandler’s Chanukah song, I had two major epiphanies. One was much more  
important than the other. I realized suddenly how hellish manic-depressive  
Mulder-attention had to be on Scully. I adore her, I rely on her, but I  
treat her– oy. One day I’m declaring I love you, you’re my one in five  
billion, the next day, boom, I’m off with Diana Fowley somewhere. After  
five years of that, I’m surprised I’ve only been shot once.

The second epiphany was the happy marriage of my new resolution to treat  
Scully right and my new holiday fetish thing. Which is why it’s December  
22, and I’m sitting in my living room waiting for Special Agent Scully to  
make her appearance.

She doesn’t knock, of course. She simply lets herself in and stares.

“Mulder?” she asks, sounding faintly horrified.

“Merry Christmas, Scully,” I offer lamely before she pins me to my spot  
with her Glock.

“What are you and where’s Mulder?” she asks.

“It’s me! Uhhh– your dog’s name was Queequeg, and I once kicked it across  
your apartment for pissing on my Bruno Maglis,” I say as she eyes the  
(fake) Christmas tree. I’m very proud of that little tree. It’s decked out  
in every Hallmark keepsake Trek and alien ornament I could find, and at  
least some of the lights are blinking. Plus, there are a few uber-cheesy  
ornaments I’ll have to explain to her later, like the “Our First  
Christmas” one. “We do this whole identity affirmation thing a lot. You  
chained the last Mulder imposter to my bed. It was a nice touch.”

She nods slowly, and eyes the tray of Christmas cookies sitting on the  
coffee table.

“They’re from a tin!” I protest. “Last month, remember, I was in the  
Bermuda Triangle. When I was in the hospital, out of my mind on opiates, I  
told you I loved you, and I mean it Scully, I love you.”

“Why is this place decked out like Vegas, Mulder?” she says, finally  
lowering the gun. “Are we having the long-promised ‘I Hate the Holidays’  
fiesta?”

“No. Just the opposite as a matter of fact.”

“Mulder, you once told me that if you’d been the Grinch Who Stole  
Christmas, you not only would have burnt the Who’s presents, you would  
have beat up Cindy Lou Who for good measure,” Scully says.

“Well, I had this revelation. Two revelations, actually. Butter cookie?” I  
ask. “There’s eggnog in the fridge.”

“Okay. So explain these revelations,” she says, taking the tray and  
sitting back in my chair. “Go get me some eggnog, Mulder.”

I walk to the kitchen, over her complaints. “I can’t believe I didn’t  
realize it was you right off. Your apartment is still a mess, despite the  
glittery facade. And you’re still a lousy host. Now get me the eggnog and  
revelations, Mulder. The cookies aren’t *that* good.”

I present her with a cup of eggnog and sit directly in front of her. Her  
bright blue eyes meet mine, and she absently licks off a nog moustache  
while staring me down.

“Well, I had this sudden realization. I love the holidays. I watched _A  
Christmas Story_ twice this weekend. I did *this*. I even seriously  
considered caroling.”

“This is sudden.”

“I know. It’s very me. I realized that, too. I never do anything in  
moderation. It’s always one extreme or the other, which often results in  
me not treating you very well.”

“Mulder–”

“One day, I’m all about appreciation and adoration, but a lot of the time,  
I ditch you, I belittle you, I make life difficult. It’s not right,  
Scully. I love you too much to–”

“Mulder, hush!” she snaps. “You’ve said I love you three times tonight.  
Mulder, I already understand your whole yo-yo personality. I’m glad it’s  
finally become glaringly obvious to you, too. But don’t you– don’t you  
dare use the phrase I love you without realizing what it means to me.”

I nod, and take a deep breath. I can either win big or lose Scully for  
good right here. Surrounded by blinking lights and Burl Ives.

“I’m not, and never would, use that phrase lightly. But I want to know  
what it means to you and to us,” I say slowly.

“It means this is for real. It’s not something you say because you’re in  
love with life and the holidays all of the sudden, or because your  
therapist advised it to help you. When you tell me you love me, you better  
god-damned well mean it. And it has to be for me and not for you, Mulder.  
Do you understand?”

“I do. Scully, you are the most important person in my life ever. And I  
know sometimes I can be a real jerk, and I’m not good enough for you–”

“Mulder,” she interrupts again. “You’re plenty good enough, if you mean  
it. I need to know it’s you and not the eggnog.”

“I hate eggnog. I got it for you. And I mean it. I love you.”

She just sits back in her chair, stunned. She shakes her head.

“Scully?”

“I don’t know what to say,” she whispers. “Wow. We had the talk and the  
world didn’t end.”

“Well, maybe it will once you see what I got you for a present,” I say. I  
scramble over to the tree and pull out a long, flat box, wrapped in silver  
foil and a red velvet bow. The determined confusion on her face is  
delightful as she tries to reason out what I got her. She deftly– maybe  
eagerly– unwraps the package with her graceful, beautiful fingers, and  
opens the pretty box underneath. I grin at her sudden disbelief at  
seeing– twelve slips of paper. She picks one up at random and reads.

“Good for ten bagels from the Bagel Factory,” she reads. “Mulder–”

“Real cream cheese included.”

“You didn’t just redo the twelve days of Christmas, did you?” she asks,  
waving the slips of paper at me. “Hmm– five golden rings– oh. So  
instead, I get one golden ring and two sets of earrings– from Tiffany’s!  
Mulder!”

“I know. It’s corny,” I apologize with a nasty grin. “Like for the twelfth  
day, a dozen long stemmed roses will be delivered to your desk on January  
3rd. It’s not original. I got it from a book, but–”

“What do I get tonight?” she asks, waving away my doubts. “One dinner,  
cooked and presented by you.”

I jump up. “Shit!”

“What?”

“I left dinner in the oven and it’s burnt,” I say, rushing into the  
kitchen. Yep, definitely ruined. “God, I suck. I’m the worst wannabe lover  
ever.”

She follows me and stands there silently. I realize eventually that she’s  
trying not to laugh. Her face is shaking like a bowlful of jelly.

“Mulder, you– if I didn’t already love you, this would be a major  
recommendation for it. Really,” she says.

“But I burnt dinner.”

“We’ll make do. That’s sort of us, isn’t it?” she asks. “I kind of have a  
craving now for breakfast anyway. And Mulder?”

“Yeah?” I ask, placing the burnt meal in the trash and the dishes in the  
sink.

“I love you,” she says. “And I mean it.”

I bite my lip. Good night, I’d better not cry. I put the last dish into  
the sink and turn around. Scully is waiting. I reach out and squeeze her  
hand.

“You want breakfast? Let’s go to House of Pies,” I say, not letting go.  
“Breakfast every hour.”

She squeezes back. “It could save the world.”

So we go. I order pumpkin pie, she orders Belgian waffles with whipped  
cream and strawberries. We talk some, we drink hot chocolate– House of  
Pies has great hot chocolate. I break the little candy canes our waitress  
gives us. We hold hands and look out the window.

Yeah. It’s official. I love the holidays.

 


End file.
